


let your colours bleed

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: Historical RPF, Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Pregnancy, Spoilers for 3x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5208419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(and blend with mine)<br/>Mary learns that there is life after death. 'She is a wife without a husband, a queen without her king, a woman without the man she loves. She is still Mary, but she is Francis’ Mary no longer.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	let your colours bleed

**Author's Note:**

> I knew it was coming. It still hurt.

In the three long weeks since Francis has died, Mary has spent most of that time hiding away in their rooms. The absence of both her and Catherine makes the court almost eerie in its silence, but she knows that there is no cause for celebration, no need for laughter, not when Francis has left them and he shall never return. Greer and Lola try their very best to cheer her, but the sight of them, the sight of Jean, the son she never had, can _never_ have, with Francis, makes her stomach turn and she harshly orders them to leave her alone. Francis’ scent is fading from his clothes, fading from their bed, and his desk is covered in a fine sheen of dust, Mary too afraid to move anything for fear of forgetting.

How is it, she has to wonder, that she goes to bed of a night and wakes up the next morning, with everything the same as it was before? How is it that the world still turns, when her Francis, her husband, her king, is lost to them all? He is surely interned by now, but the common people do not weep for him. Mary knows they have their own struggles, but surely, such a loss…it must be felt.

It is by her. She may go to bed every night as if everything is the same, but she hardly sleeps, the bed too cold with Francis to warm her, too silent without his soft snores. She never imagined a life with the boy she’d known from childhood, but now, in the space of less than a moment, less than a breath, she has had to reconcile herself with such a notion. She is a wife without a husband, a queen without her king, a woman without the man she loves. She is still Mary, but she is Francis’ Mary no longer. The happy moments seem too few, too pitiful, now that he is gone and she cannot gaze upon his face anymore…the sad ones even worse now he cannot hold her hand and assure her that everything shall be okay. She is lost, bereft, and she cannot imagine a day when she does not feel this way. Nothing brings her comfort, and she wonders how God could ever be so cruel.

But the days still pass, Mary powerless to stop them. She remains in France, although she truly has no place here any longer, although her country is in need of a Queen, in need of her. Perhaps it would be better to return to Scotland, to start afresh, but one look at the golden curl of hair tucked neatly, carefully, inside her locket, the hair no one knew she had cut from Francis’ head before they’d begun preparations for his burial, reminds her that there is still things that must be done in France, things she must accomplish because Francis cannot.

Catherine may be regent, as powerful as a king, but she is still in need of assistance, and if Mary wishes to retain the ties between Scotland and France, she must offer her pseudo-mother the assistance she needs. She knows for all of Catherine’s brave fronts the mother inside her is crying out for the loss of her son, her first-born. Losing her baby, watching the blood pour down her leg had been painful enough…Mary can scarcely imagine how truly heart-wrenching it is for Catherine to lose Francis, a man grown.

When Mary finds that the smell of certain foods make her queasy, she thinks it is a merely another sign that nothing shall ever be right again now that Francis is gone. Her ladies urge her to eat, but she cannot. She can barely breathe, doomed to live out her days without the husband that should still be at her side, ready to support her in whatever she asks of him. She does not eat, does not dream, does not think unless it is thoughts of Francis, and she wonders, is this _really_ the life God has destined for her? Her marriage to Francis was supposed to bring joy to both their nations, to ensure Scotland was protected against the ever-growing English threat, and perhaps it should not have turned into love, but it had, and she grieves the loss of it. She has only loved a few things in her life, her country, her mother, her friends, but Francis was surely the thing she loved the most. The thing she loves the most.

Catherine, having drawn herself out of her seclusion to reassert her authority on Charles’ behalf, begs her to see a physician, her conscience apparently too shattered by Francis’ death to bear having another on her hands. Mary may be a woman grown, but she is still Catherine’s ward and she supposes protecting her son’s wife is the next best thing to protecting her son, the only thing Catherine can do to ease her pain. No one could have protected Francis, and although Mary has never revelled in the sight of a man dying, she made sure that she was there to see Francis’ killer die, made sure her eyes were the last thing he saw before the noose tightened around his neck and the life was strangled out of him.

Mary agrees, although she finds the request ridiculous, for despite her broken heart she is as healthy as the day she was born, healthier than her brothers had ever been. A daughter, her father bemoaned, but she has lived to see eighteen years and she is hearty enough that she knows, God willing, she shall see many more. Perhaps she agrees merely to ease Catherine’s worries, perhaps because she wishes to know why, despite the days passing, why her heart still hurts. Is there nothing that can ease her pain, nothing that can dull her sorrow? It is torture enough to live without Francis, she does not think she shall be able handle it much longer if she must continue to feel his loss as agonizingly as the very moment he slipped away from her.  

Catherine holds her hand whilst the physician examines her, and Mary is thankful for the company. Despite her orders, Greer and Lola have still often desired to see her, but she finds their presence merely another reminder of all she has lost. Her friends still have links to France, whilst hers have all but slipped away. ‘What is France without my Francis?’ may been uttered by Catherine herself, tearfully confessed late one night when they both could not sleep, but for Mary, it has never been a truer sentiment. France may have been the place which had seen her grow from a child to a woman, but it had never been home quite the way Francis’ arms had been.

The physician eyes her cautiously, his brow furrowed in thought. Mary, still gripping Catherine’s hand, eyes the man right back, eyebrow arched in question. Whatever is wrong with her, it cannot be worse than watching the man she loved, _loves_ , die right before her, die because he put her welfare above her one more time.

“Your Majesty,” the man begins, his tone wary.

He stops, and Mary prompts him with a sharp “Yes?”, her voice unfamiliar to her ears after days of going used. Gone are the nights spent whispering plans for the future for her bed is silent now, and she hate, hate, hates it with such fervour.

“I believe – that is, I think…well, it appears, it seems,” he stresses, and his stammering seemingly annoying her companion, for Catherine finally grinds out a harsh “Oh get on with it!”, her tone causing the physician to flinch.

“I have reason to believe that the Queen is with child,” he finally murmurs, so very softly it as if he has not even spoken at all.

Mary barely even notices Catherine’s dismissal of the man, the physician gladly hoisting his satchel over his shoulder and fleeing her rooms, her mind whirling too much to register anything at all.

_With child?_

She laughs, turning her gaze to Catherine. “With child,” Mary repeats between fits of laughter. “What a ludicrous idea!” She laughs until she is almost in tears, her throat lodged with guilt for a future that shall never come to pass, of children that she’ll never be able to love. The very thought of a child would have filled her heart with joy mere months ago, but now, it just seems like cruel irony for the physician to suggest such a thing. There is no husband with which she can produce children, no bedmate of a night. Unless this is some joke God has chosen to play on her, there is no child swelling in her belly. More likely, she has been cursed twice over and is merely showing the signs of pregnancy like her cousin Mary had twice before her death, a cruel, twisted joke to better drive the knife into her already-bleeding heart.

Catherine says nothing, merely wipes away her tears once Mary’s sobs have subsided. She inhales sharply, and places her hand upon Mary’s, the cool metal of her many rings somewhat comforting. She does not wear Francis’ signet ring, and for that Mary is glad. That ring shall be passed onto Charles once the time arrives, but it shall forever remind her of the way it felt against her skin whenever Francis felt inclined to place his hand on her cheek, whether in comfort, in desire or simply in a longing to touch her as a man should his wife.

“Mary,” Catherine begins, and something in her voice startles her. “My dear, perhaps it is not so ludicrous, perhaps we should not dismiss the idea so quickly. Tell me, when was the last time you bled?” Mary blanches at such an invasive question, but Catherine curls her fingers around hers, effectively trapping her, compelling her to answer.

Catherine’s seeking gaze forces her to think, to look back upon the memories she wishes to repress. The last time she bled…

“A week or so before…” Mary says, trailing off. Catherine nods in recognition. They have both not spoken at length about the nature of Francis’ death, Mary’s desire for revenge satisfied somewhat with the death of his murderer and Catherine unable to truly believe, despite her outward appearance, that her son is gone from her after her trials to conceive him, to bring him into this world. “Maybe two.”

“So it has been three months or so since then,” Catherine tells her, thinking out-loud. “And your ladies tell me that the smell of chicken makes you queasy, and that you have often fallen asleep in the mid-afternoon.”

“To escape reality,” Mary utters shakily, unable to process what Catherine is saying, what is occurring. “Although my dreams are hardly any better.”

“And are your clothes tightening at all?”

Mary shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know. There hasn’t been many occasions for me to don an elaborate gown lately.” She wipes under her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, one of Francis’ old ones which does not smell like it, but reminds her of him nonetheless. “Wearing his clothes makes me forget that he is gone, makes me feel closer to him.”

Catherine nods in understanding, silent as she thinks.

“We’ll wait another month or so,” she tells Mary, standing up and smoothing down her skirts. “Just to be sure.”

“And what is it we must be sure of?” Mary has to question, for surely this cannot be true. Surely this is all a dream, and she is going to wake up soon, alone in her bed in her cold rooms.

“Mary, my dear, the physician may be an old fool, but I know the symptoms better than any. Before Francis arrived, I’d half-convinced myself I was pregnant at least a dozen times, so sure that my hatred of broccoli meant that I was finally with child.” Catherine laughs at the memory. “It turns that I just abhor the vegetable, but those false beliefs gave me the hope I needed to endure within my marriage, to wait out the years until I was finally blessed with Francis.”

She offers Mary a smile, and continues to speak. “But I think, Mary, that this is not one of these false times. God was certainly cruel when he took Francis from us, but perhaps he blessed us also, for I am certain that you are with child. _Francis’_ child. And may you find comfort in being so,” Catherine tells her, brushing a hand over her hair in reassurance, before leaving Mary to her thoughts.  

A baby.

Francis’ baby.

Mary settles a hand upon her stomach, which is still as flat as it has ever been, perhaps more so due to her stubborn refusal to eat and her sudden dislike of so many foods she had previously loved. She blinks away the tears that have begun to well in her eyes, for no matter what, no matter what Catherine thinks, surely this shall just prove to be a continuation of her grief, another loss to add to her tally. Her first baby, her Maman, Francis… _this baby_? Surely even this shall end the way she knows it will, for when has God ever smiled upon her?

\---

But a month passes and Mary must concede that Catherine was correct after all. She emerged from her rooms, from her seclusion almost a week ago, and ordered her maids to lace her in a dress to ensure she was presentable for the court. It had been the pain that such an action caused not, not the nausea, not the weight gain, not the way her breasts now ache, that finally made her admit that perhaps there is life to be found in death.

Conceived on the shores on that little lake she’d desperately wished to show Francis, the detour taking more from her than mere hours of delay within their travels to Paris, when she stands sans clothes, she is able to see a soft swelling of her belly, a babe growing inside of her once again. She hadn’t known it at the time, but even as they’d buried Francis, their child had been taking root inside of her, enduring everything, her refusal to eat, her grief, her self-imposed seclusion. It has stayed strong within her despite everything, and that very thought brings a smile to her lips.  

Mary shall return to Scotland once her babe is safely arrived, for France already has its heir. Charles shall be king soon enough, Henry after that if anything terrible happens. Her child shall not be the King of France, but Mary finds herself fine with the arrangement. Perhaps if things were different, her brother James could rule Scotland in her stead and she would stay in France with her baby, stay close to the places where Francis only months ago walked upon, but things are what they are and Scotland needs her to return.

She is, and always will be, Francis’ wife, but he better than anyone knew that she is a Queen before anything and the time has come for her to return to her duties, her queenly duty of providing an heir already accomplished as her belly continues to swell.

And her father, for all his efforts, only had one heir to follow him, so why can’t she? This child is stronger than the one before, it has proven as much, and like its mother before it, it shall grow hearty and strong, complacent in its role as her heir. There shall be no need for her to marry again, no need to secure alliances in such a way when she has such a tangible connection to France right beside her. Her nobles may grumble, but her cousin Elizabeth has managed to do the very same thing for years now, and after all, she is their Queen. Her word is law, and despite Francis’ pleading, she has sworn to herself that she will never love another, never take another man as her husband. She will not sully his memory in such a manner.   

She may have lost Francis, but his child is growing inside of her, a parting gift from the man she shall always love, and he shall be as perfect as his father was. Mary is sure of it.

And when she passes away years and years later, Francis waiting for her with open arms and a grin spread across his lips, her ladies hand to her son _, their_ son, her signet ring and two portraitures of himself as a babe, ‘wee Jamie’ as her brother had dubbed him, and one of Francis, Mary’s only husband… and his father, the man from whom he had inherited his golden curls and his love of archery. The man whom, despite his death, had been brought to life for James through his mother’s stories, Mary desperate that not even death should ever stop a son from knowing his father.  


End file.
